


What You Sow

by knowtheway



Series: the road to hell is paved with good intentions [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, F/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-05-12 03:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19220773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowtheway/pseuds/knowtheway
Summary: He spends the first morning testing the integrity of the spell, careful to choose his words and actions should it not prove as strong as he thought. His wife is a very capable witch after all and it would be just within her abilities to lure him to a false sense of security before devouring him whole in revenge.





	1. You Reap

**Author's Note:**

> Faustus soon learns he has some regrets and that he has done fucked up, but he did this himself, so get fucked m8. Pretty hastily written, but I was itching to get this idea out of my system. I suppose it could be read as a continuation of “We Danced, Of Course,” but it could also work as a stand alone. Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy!

Faustus can only remember fragments of his mother and subsequent stepmothers’ sunny demeanors after his father enchanted them into subservience. He had always assumed - because it was explained to him as such - that it was for their own good. Too much independence in a woman was unbecoming, scandalous, dangerous even. Many a witch had too easily exposed themselves to the mortal world and burned for such qualities, so surely a warlock keeping his wife docile and delicate was for her own protection.

But one thing he’d failed to be privy to as a young boy was the absolute rapture that would come from having his wife so malleable under his influence and authority. Though a submissive Zelda was far from a novel concept, the freedom afforded to him now was truly sublime.

He spends the first morning testing the integrity of the spell, careful to choose his words and actions should it not prove as strong as he thought. His wife is a very capable witch after all and it would be just within her abilities to lure him to a false sense of security before devouring him whole in revenge. So he starts slow - “pour me some tea, darling,” “fetch my tie, won’t you” - watching as she, without hesitation, caters to his every whim. It’s almost amusing. As such, he takes a sort of twisted delight in knowing that if Zelda could see herself sweetly humming while buttoning the cuffs of his sleeves - she would eviscerate the nearest object (or person) in her path with rage. But when she finishes her task, she just smiles up at him - brighter and wider than he’s ever seen before.

“Do you need anything else, darling?” her voice is high and soft, just on the edge of saccharine sweet and he finds it takes him some getting used to (but it’s a small price to pay).

“No, that’ll do fine, my dear,” he kisses the side of her mouth and she gives a hum of satisfaction.

He tells her to go explore the city while he tends to business that day, pointedly suggesting that shopping for a new wardrobe would be a particularly pleasant activity for her - he saw some lovely dresses in a shop not too far away, and wouldn’t giving them a look be just delightful? It’s just as he finishes his sentence that he sees what he’s been waiting for: her eyes flicker and she seems to stall briefly at his suggestion. It’s _resistance_ , and for him - it’s reassurance that her compliance isn’t purely a performance, that he’s not at risk of a dagger to the throat in his sleep anytime soon.

Tugging his lips into a wicked smile, he reaches a hand up to her face and brushes his knuckles against her cheek. “Or you could simply stay here and wait for my return,” he says softly, silently strengthening the spell with his touch. 

Her eyes focus back and then she blinks, looking up at him. “Whatever pleases you most, husband.”

That night, after returning, he has her undress and lays her down on the bed. Though there was little left unexplored in their carnal activities, one thing he had never been able to do was what he was now relishing in. Zelda was always a fervent lover, greedy and impatient. She was forever igniting and heightening their desires and he was forever just trying to keep up with her. It made each moment frenzied, desperate - and consistently culminated in a rather explosive climax. By the time they would finish, there was scarcely a spare ounce of energy or breath between them. He had no complaints, but now - with Zelda lying delicate and soft and perfectly still beneath him - he marvels at the realization that he’s never been afforded the opportunity to touch her like this, to drink in every exquisite inch of her under his hands. 

He’s always thought her beautiful, but with each passing minute of his hands and eyes roaming over her, it amazes him that she only becomes more and more exquisite. The smoothness of her porcelain skin, the brightness of her golden red hair, the perfect swell of her breasts, and the curve of her waist and hips. Even her eyes... he’s stared into them a thousand times before and only in this moment realized just how dazzling a green they are. He had only ever experienced her in small tastes at a time, but now here was the opportunity to feast and indulge and he praises Satan that the gorgeous creature below him is thoroughly, completely his. 

“Zelda, my darling,” he murmurs and slowly kisses a trail up her chest to her neck. She responds by placing her hands on his shoulders and then curling them into the hair at the back of his neck. “Did you miss me while I was gone?”

By Satan, she sincerely pouts. “Yes, of course, terribly.”

“Oh dear,” he feigns sympathy, reaching his hand up to stroke a finger over her jaw.“Then I must make it up to you tonight... keep you all to myself, how does that sound?”

“Wonderful,” and her face brightens with a broad smile.

He settles between her legs and kisses her soundly, sliding a hand into hair and turning her face up to his so that he can better explore her mouth. She moans sweetly into him, the soft flesh of her breasts brushing against his chest. His cock twitches at the sensation and he decides not to delay another moment.

“Look at me, beautiful,” he whispers and she quickly - almost too quickly - complies, locking eyes with him and holding his gaze, seemingly awaiting her next instruction. Breathing deeply, he slides a hand under her thigh, pushing her leg up to spread her open wider. His mouth hovers over hers, her shaky breaths warm against his lips as he positions himself at her entrance. “My gorgeous girl... sing for me, won’t you,” and he slowly pushes into her as her eyes flutter shut. 

He’s never experienced Zelda this way - she’s all reaction, responding to his every touch and movement, but never seeking out more or chasing her own pleasure.It’s notably different, but it hardly stifles his enjoyment. She looks up at him in adoration, perhaps even worship, as he moves inside her. It’s instant gratification for something he’s previously had to put significantly more effort into achieving (if he could even manage it at all). He could certainly get used this. So with a sort of malevolent glee, he speeds up the jerking of his hips and watches her face twist in pleasure only after he commands her to come. Her back arches up off the bed and her head tilts back as she gasps his name softly. That’s all it takes to push him over the edge and burying his face in her neck, he empties himself inside her.

Several moments later - after his body has cooled and his breathing has slowed - he rolls off of her and waits to feel her hand slide up up his chest as she curls next to him like always. Only she doesn’t. 

Perplexed, he raises his head and sees her lying perfectly still - just as he’d instructed her to at the start. He stares a moment - wondering if and when she’ll move, but when she makes no sign of budging, he calls to her softly, “Zelda, dearest?”

She turns to look at him. She’s almost beaming, but her eyes are hollow and vacant. It’s just on the edge of unnerving, but he beckons her to him nonetheless. 

She settles into him and he begins relaying the rather interesting developments at the Vatican that day, slowly stroking her arm. Amongst his pride over the developing favor he was gaining with the council, he mentions an altogether loathsome encounter with Dark Bishop Nahum - a frequent visitor to Greendale in their Academy days. A tiresome old geezer whose only ambition - for which he would talk at exhaustive lengths to anyone he came in contact with - was to locate and claim the Garden of Eden in Lucifer’s name.

“Still as barmy as he was a century ago,” Faustus chuckles, expecting Zelda to join in. They had shared a particular distaste for his disgrace’s supercilious theories back when they were students and often found themselves together in frustrated discourse about how absolutely batty the man was. So he expectantly waits for her to chime in, to reminisce and commiserate with him as they did when they were young. Or perhaps she can advise him on the more difficult parts of how to navigatecharming the council in his favor. Instead, she just continues to silently draw patterns across his chest with her finger. 

He stares down at her, contemplating for a moment. Perhaps he had tired her out. Gently, he cards his hand through her hair. This seems to stir her and he sighs out a laugh, “Zel-“ 

“You’re so clever, darling,” she says, eyes unfocused and her voice completely void of emotion.

His brow furrows and a sense of unease starts to swell within him. He tilts her chin up to his, searching for any indication that she’s at all present behind that dull gaze. He finds none. “Are you tired, my dear? Shall w-“

“Whatever pleases you most, _husband_.”


	2. What You Sow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first, it had been intoxicating – having her fawn over him like a deity and fulfill his every wish as if it were divine instruction itself. Having power over Zelda, making her his, was something he was unsure would ever be obtainable and now that he’d done it - he felt absolutely drunk with it. Until he realized having power over this particular version of Zelda was akin to being the master and owner of a porcelain doll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can’t ever quite get the hang of figuring out how many parts a work will be at the start, so here’s part 2 of 3 now. lol It’s a bit short, but it felt like the most natural place to break it up. Hope you enjoy!

His days are predictably filled with discussion about the Anti-Pope’s unfortunate demise and how to proceed with a successor. He expertly walks the line between sympathy for their fallen leader and the duty to move forward in the best interest of the church. It’s clearly received well as he sees each council member swell with approving glances at nearly all of his suggestions. He, quite frankly, feels the title inching closer to him with every word. Although... he finds that he is still treading a few unsteady waters, too - a sly inference towards a line in his manifesto, an accusatory question regarding a past decision as High Priest in Greendale, a comparison or two to his predecessor. It’s just enough doubt for the seed of irritation to start sprouting upon his dismissal each day. Today has ended on a particularly ambiguous note and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t driving him a bit mad.

It’s the sort of thing he’d discuss with his wife – the sort of thing she’d have the perfect answer for to soothe his doubts. Both Zelda and himself had a talent for reading people and then playing them like a fiddle, but whereas he could concede to a few small weaknesses in the trade, she was all strengths. Under normal circumstances, he could see himself getting back to their hotel, pacing furiously and only calming after she used a cool logic with which he couldn’t possibly find a flaw. She’d hook her hands around his neck and press herself into him, smirking as he suggestively raised a brow and then they’d spend the rest of the night fucking, her stroking his ego (among other things), and him relishing in the promise of becoming a king simply because she said he would.

But instead he finds himself sitting in an armchair, bringing a glass of scotch up to his lips, and welcoming the burning sensation as it travels down his throat into his belly. His wife is on her knees before him, her mouth full, and he hisses softly as her teeth drag lightly over his shaft. He places a hand in her hair and tilts his head back as she wraps her hand around the base of him, taking him deeper into her mouth. This is the only way he can still pretend a semblance of his relationship with Zelda still exists. 

At first, it had been intoxicating – having her fawn over him like a deity and fulfill his every wish as if it were divine instruction itself. Having power over Zelda, making her his, was something he was unsure would ever be obtainable and now that he’d done it - he felt absolutely drunk with it. Until he realized having power over this particular version of Zelda was akin to being the master and owner of a porcelain doll. Every movement required a command, every conversation had to be prompted and was limited to a spare few phrases produced on a loop, every touch was orchestrated, and every thought was seemingly pulled from some endless void of sugary sweet nonsense. There was scarcely a trace of Zelda left. He would catch glimpses at times – a brief stall at a topic he knew she would normally chime in on, a soft gasp as he trailed his mouth along the familiar spot of her collarbone, her hand briefly hovering over her signature red lipstick before decidedly picking up the soft pink she’d newly purchased.

As such, he’s often thought of lifting the spell, breaking the enchantment and dealing with whatever wrath he has to face just to have her back. But there’s far too much at stake and surely somewhere behind those vacant eyes, she knows it, too. To put himself at risk is to put her at risk and he nor his beloved bride have ever been one to compromise self-interest. So he calls back to the reason he placed the enchantment in the first place and makes himself believe it. For her own protection. For _their_ own good. 

Even still, as she speeds up the movement of her head and lets out a muffled mewl at his fist tightening in her hair, he thinks of... her. It’s not enough to have her down on her knees with her tongue rolling over his cock when the person she is right now could be any other whore at his lap. Though she’s right in front of him, his mind fills with images of the Zelda he so adores - her eyes looking up at him heavy with lust as she laps at his leaking head, her short nails digging into his back when he enter hers roughly, the way she tastes on his lips, and her chanting his name over and over and... Suddenly, he’s coming, holding her head firmly in place from the back of her skull as he fills her mouth with his seed.

When he’s spent and releases her, she stays kneeling and gingerly wipes her mouth. Then, with a expectant glance, she asks, “Did I please you, husband?”

He’s still breathing deeply and runs a hand over his face before leaning forward. He looks over her for a moment, searching for something, but not exactly certain what. After a few seconds, he resigns with a sigh and lightly caresses her cheek. “Yes darling, you have pleased me.”

She smiles, enthused with her praise and kisses him before standing. “Thank you, husband. I’ll draw your bath now.”

He nods, closing his eyes, taking a deep, tired breath. “Yes. Very good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of a wise internet meme, “Honey, you’ve got a big storm coming.” Faustus is up for some intense reality checks. Stay tuned! Thanks for reading!


	3. Let Us Not Be Weary In Well-Doing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s thoroughly baffled that he finds himself still chasing that praise now that they share a bed and he can’t help but feel he’s pulled himself deeper into something that having her close was supposed to remedy. He’s currently absorbed in the irony of it when he feels every eye on him and suddenly, he realizes he’s been posed a question he didn’t hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s 3 of 4 now ‘cause I don’t know how to brevity good. I am so sorry.

It’s the fifth day of deliberations regarding the direction of the Church of Night and Faustus has presented every idea and point which may secure him a rather lustrous title. As such, he feels confident enough to let his mind wander during the drier parts of conversation. It predictably wanders to her - or rather, who she was. He’s found, with an edge of frustration, that he takes more pleasure in the fantasy of her than he does the shell of a human waiting for his return now. He only found release in servicing himself last night and the realization that may be the future he’s made for himself has him sulking internally and calculating (for the 100th time) just how quickly he’d need to dodge the first curse she’d throw if he lifted the spell. For reasons he can’t quite seem to figure out, being at the absolute height of his career isn’t as satisfying without validation from her. He’s thoroughly perplexed by it and there is a part of him that truly resents it - when he was married to Constance, he never concerned himself with what she thought of him, or really what she thought at all. They served a purpose to each other and he could’ve just as easily accomplished it with any other witch. But Zelda... she got under his skin like no other, challenged him and pushed him until he had no choice, but to rise to the occasion. She forced the best out of him time and again, forever remaining in his line of sight while doing so, but forever an arm’s length away. Whereas his previous wife was complacent and agreeable, Zelda was anything, but. He couldn’t rely on or expect her praise, he had to earn to it. And the feeling he had once he’d finally done so was nothing short of triumphant. 

He’s thoroughly baffled that he finds himself still chasing that praise now that they share a bed and he can’t help but feel he’s pulled himself deeper into something that having her close was supposed to remedy. He’s currently absorbed in the irony of it when he feels every eye on him and suddenly, he realizes he’s been posed a question he didn’t hear.

He clears his throat and addresses the dark bishop at the head of the table. “My apologies, your disgrace,” he bows his head slightly and continues, “I’m afraid my mind got distracted thinking of my wife waiting for me.”

The men all give breathy laughs of understanding and the dark bishop nods to him. “Yes indeed, my son, how is your beautiful bride faring in the city?”

“Very well, your worship. It’s uh... rejuvenated her spirit and faith after the horrendous actions by her nephew. She was rather distraught, as one could imagine, but I believe being in the presence of our Dark Lord’s most honored servants,” he gestures to the table, “is a healing comfort to her.”

His disgrace smiles, “Very good. Well then, I feel that we’ve accomplished enough today that we can allow you to return to your wife and... further soothe her.”

“Thank you, your disgrace, you are most merciful,” he stands and then bows, taking his leave from the wave of a hand and letting his mind wander back into distraction.

When he returns to her, the weight of exhaustion from the past few days’ events sinks deep into his body. So much so that he can’t even be bothered with his ambivalence towards her. He finds himself responding in automation as much as she does (the thought of irony flickers briefly through his mind again) and as such - he doesn’t quite comprehend how he’s wound up in a warm bath with her behind him gliding a rag over his skin, but the sensation is all too soothing for him to care. 

He leans into her, his back pressed against her breasts, and sighs as she runs the cloth across his chest. His head cradles onto her shoulder - the slow movement of her touch turning his exhaustion into relaxation and the tug of sleep begins to wash over him. Everything becomes dim and calm as he sinks further under the water.

But then he vaguely registers her speaking. For the second time today, he’s been caught not listening to a question posed directly to him. His eyes are closed and he makes no move to open them, but he acknowledges her with a quiet, “Hmm?”

“I asked how your day was, dear. What did you discuss with the council?” 

Her voice is soft and it does little to rouse him. “Nothing new,” he murmurs and breathes deeply feeling her hand come up to stroke his face.

“You’ve been working so hard, darling, the council must be so amazed,” she puts a particular emphasis on the last word to pander to him and he knows it. It’s what the spell would have her say, and so he gives only a passing bit of response to it, whispering, “Indeed” and then sighs.

There’s silence for a moment and she stills behind him, the water enveloping him like a blanket along with her arms. Then, just as he feels himself about to drift off - her lips meet his neck and she lays two soft, gentle kisses against his skin.

It takes him by such surprise that his eyes snap open. Her fingers are threading softly through his hair and he’s met with a small smile and warm look that he can’t discernibly say has any genuineness to it or not. As such, he’s not sure what to make of it. He sits up and his brow furrows as he looks at her. In all of his knowledge and personal experience with a Caligari spell, honest affection was not on its list of attributes. Not without prompting, at least... and tired as he is, he thinks he would recall commanding her to nuzzle into his neck and soothe him like a fussy child. Several moments pass and he must have been staring for longer than he thought because suddenly, her face falls slightly and she looks down. 

“I’m sorry, husband.”

Quickly, he tilts her chin up, still waiting for his mind to connect to some faraway knowledge he’d forgotten in order to provide some type of explanation. But it doesn’t come and all he knows is that a desire he’s not experienced in several days is slipping away and he simply cannot let that happen. So he places a hand on her face, pulling her to him and then crashes his lips to hers. She responds with a small moan and her hands immediately anchor to his strong shoulders. He wraps his arms around her and twists them in such a way that she’s partly laying on top of him as he continues to explore her mouth. She moans and sighs and matches his intensity with each swipe of his tongue against hers. It’s the most passion he’s seen from her since he cast the damned spell and he feels a sort of exhilaration start to build that entirely takes over. He eagerly slides his hands down to her backside and pulls her up to straddle his lap, the motion of it sending water splashing loudly to the floor. 

He was hard for her almost immediately, but with the feel of her skin sliding slick against his and her hands greedily pulling him tighter to her, he knows he won’t last much longer. He needs to be inside her. He makes to reach between them so he can position himself for her to sink down onto him deliciously, but it’s at that same moment the phone rings.

Her head snaps up instantly and she stares off at the sound of it, seemingly conflicted. It would be a good wife’s duty to answer the call for her husband. In addition to serving as his trophy, his servant, his whore - a good wife would also be his secretary. He senses the part of her that is about make good on the latter, but before she can rise off of him - he turns her chin back to him. “Ignore it,” he whispers and pulls her lips back to his.

He places a hand on the small of her back, the other trailing up her torso to regain where they left off. However, the fates are not on his side because the blessèd device won’t stop fucking ringing. In addition to clearly distracting her, he realizes the nature of their visit in Rome might facilitate calls which would require his attention. So with as much control as he can muster and a rather frustrated groan, he pushes her off of him gently, touching his hand to her face. “I’ll be back, my love,” and she nods.

Stepping out, he hastily wraps a towel round his waist and rushes to the incessant noise which has robbed him of what would have surely have been his most glorious orgasm of the past week. As such, when he picks up the phone - it’s with thinly-veiled irritation that he answers. But his tone quickly changes as he realizes the voice on the other line is the head of the High Council. To phone him directly at such an hour is a surprise that he can’t decide yet is rewarding or concerning.

“Father Blackwood, my apologies for disturbing your evening,” Methuselah’s choppy voice vibrates in his ear.

“Not at all, your unholiness. What can I do for you?” the familiar role of obedient servant comes back to him quickly.

“It would seem that your coven back in Greendale has experienced quite an ordeal in your absence. So it appears the doing will be for you and your congregation,” he says.

Faustus hasn’t the slightest idea what he means. He charged his best Judas boys with relaying events of any importance while he was gone and he’s heard nothing. “Ordeal, sir?”

“Witch hunters,” he replies plainly and Faustus feels his blood pump fast with tension. Perhaps this is a call of condolence. Surely the hunters would’ve been after the High Priest’s kin first to salt the wound of any other loss within the coven. “My son?” he asks suddenly.

“Young Judas is safe and well,” Methuselah reassures him and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Praise Satan,” he whispers, but Methuselah makes clear he wasn’t finished.

“Your daughter is also well,” he speaks as if curious that he cared at all to know and Faustus chastises himself. Prudence had been a topic of concern during deliberations the past week. It was unbecoming for a High Priest to have a known bastard child operating with the entitlement of his name in a coven, but he had convinced the centuries-old warlocks it was a sign of progress. That he would serve as an example to other witch families who might be tempted to stray from the path of night should the unconventional remain unacceptable.

“By the Dark Lord’s grace,” Faustus quickly covers his tracks. “Though I would expect no less of my daughter - she has proven more than capable on many an occasion.”

“Actually, it was a rather close call... she barely escaped with her life and you have your niece to thank for her survival,” he interrupts and Faustus’ brow furrows. Surely, he doesn’t mean...

“My niece... Indeed?” he asks.

“Yes, Miss Spellman rather _miraculously_ decimated the hunters and saved the entire coven. You and your wife should be very proud.”

“I see,” Faustus can just barely hide his annoyance at such news. He knows it will be ill-received to respond with anything less than compassion and relief that his flock has been spared, so he sees fit to end the conversation before he’s unable to do just that. “My sincerest gratitude for informing me, your unholiness. I shall speak with my charges and see how best to alleviate any lingering worries for my coven and thank Sabrina for her service.”

With a tense jaw, he prepares to bid his goodbye, but a resolved Methuselah breaks his intentions with two words: “There’s more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my thought with the slight attitude shift is that, though Zelda couldn’t make her own decisions, I doubt that she ever stopped trying to find a way to break through it. I was going to make a final part from her perspective to better explain this, but I pissed myself off writing the 4th part and I don’t think I’ll have the strength to revisit it once it’s done. But I basically saw this as Zelda working within the parameters of the spell to get Faustus to talk. The more information she had, the better position she’d be in once she could finally break the spell. If that makes any sense.
> 
> Last part is nearly finished, so should be up tomorrow! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Oh, I do also have a tumblr now - know-the-way. Though I’m really awful at checking it, please feel free to say hi, send a prompt, etc. :)


	4. And From That Nature Will Only Sow Corruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thus, he takes relief in knowing he can remove the Caligari spell. Because once she knows what he’s soon to become, she’ll never leave his side. They’re similar creatures in that way, both have an understanding that status dictates everything in life. So he can only estimate how long it’ll take before the lust for dominion seizes her (and he plainly believes it won’t be long at all).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I didn’t post this today, it was never gonna happen. Staying on theme of trying-to-explain-(not justify)-canon. So... needless to say, please heed the warnings. The one in bold particularly. Also upped the rating ‘cause... I don’t know, it felt right to do so. Thanks for sticking with me.

Directly after hanging up, Faustus feels a surge of exultant adrenaline shoot through him.

_Anti Pope._

He is going to be the highest ruler in all the Churches of Darkness. Satan’s right hand. All will bow to his guidance and will. There’s not a single thing, save for the Dark Lord himself, that can stop him. It’s all he’s worked for in his nearly two centuries of life and he’s absolutely euphoric. Never mind that Methuselah implied their selection had less to do with his skills and persuasions and more to do with circumstances ( _“Greendale appears to be a rather active sight for adversaries of our kind... we need a set of eyes familiar with such tribulations to guide the Church on a path away from them.”_ ). The title was his, the power was his, and - just like his high priesthood - he would fit the role by whatever means necessary. 

Suddenly, she appears standing in her robe and looks at him, questioning and apologetic. “The water ran cold,” she says softly and he smiles wide, walking quickly over to her.

“Who c-“ she doesn’t get the sentence out because he pulls her tight into a kiss, deep and desperate and surely with more enthusiasm than she expected because when he pulls back - she looks little more than shocked.

“I take it that you received good news, husband,” she says, breathless, resting a hand on his chest.

He raises a hand to her face. “Zelda, my darling. Yes, I have... the _most_ fantastic  news,” he sighs stroking her cheek, looking her over like the most prized of his possessions. 

“Oh?” she says sweetly. 

“Mmm,” he nods and lets a moment pass, gently sweeping her damp curls from her face. 

There is a part of him that thought of her as soon as the news was delivered to him. Though she did a far better job at hiding it, Zelda had always been as ravenous for power as he was. Other witches of her age had been content with their dealt hand, but she actively hungered for more, skillfully moving the high ranking warlocks of the coven like chess pieces on a board. By the time her ideas had been whispered in their ears and they boastfully shared them as their own, ensuring their longevity, she had already made her next move - bishop to knight, knight to rook, rook to Queen - diverting attention with an expertise that made it take far longer than he would ever admit for him to decipher her little tricks. Watching her work had been intoxicating, so much so that when he finally caught on to her, he - like a sailor to a siren - nearly let her wreck him entirely just for the pleasure of it (and it was a desire he would teeter on the edge of making reality for centuries afterwards), but now... praise Satan... there was no longer a need. He possessed everything she ever wanted, weighing heavy on the tip of his tongue, about to shake her entire world into oblivion with it, and what’s more - he was almost gleefully ready to tumble down along her side so he could rebuild it. With her. 

Thus, he takes relief in knowing he can remove the Caligari spell. Because once she knows what he’s soon to become, she’ll never leave his side. They’re similar creatures in that way, both have an understanding that status dictates everything in life. So he can only estimate how long it’ll take before the lust for dominion seizes her (and he plainly believes it won’t be long at all).

He toys with the idea of removing it now, just so he can see her genuine reaction, so he can watch her submit to him in totality - watch her _choose_ him . But the euphoria hasn’t made him lose his senses entirely and he knows to remove it now would be little more than a death wish.

“Dearest, we must travel back to Greendale tomorrow,” he says softly, purposefully dragging it out for his own enjoyment.

“Oh. But why?” she looks up at him in concern.

“Our coven is being honored with a visit from the newly appointed Anti Pope.”

She blinks, her lips turning up into a sweet smile. “How wonderful! Who have they selected?”

He’s beaming, his chest literally puffed out in pride and he pulls her hand up to his lips to place a quick kiss on her palm. “Your husband.”

An innocent curiosity crosses her face. “I... I don’t think I understand.”

“Me, Zelda,” his hands resting on her hips now, face brimming with pride and satisfaction, “They’ve selected me. You are now married to the interim Anti Pope for the Church of Darkness.”

He’s not sure exactly what he expected her reaction to be, but silence certainly wasn’t it. She stares at him wide-eyed in incredulity, her lips parted to accommodate her suddenly more rapid breathing. He waits expectantly for another moment and then huffs out a small laugh. The news must have shocked her.

“Zelda... ?” his hand strokes her face.

She blinks and takes a shaky breath, snapping back into the moment. “Oh,” she sighs, “That’s... what an honor. How marvelous for you, husband.”

The insincerity cannot be missed and he feels his expression start to fall. “ ... Yes.”

“I’m so glad for you,” she follows up and the implication that it’s solely a victory for him is, strangely, what hits him hardest - like a lash of redhot iron to skin.

His hands are still at her waist and, with the wind completely knocked out of his sails, Faustus realizes this may again be a consequence of the spell. But then... she had such a different demeanor earlier this evening... surely a bit of her must still be burning behind it. And that bit of her would also surely have found its way to the forefront for something this monumental. 

A sinking feeling rapidly blooms inside him. The Caligari spell was meant to pause the game, but he suddenly realizes that... perhaps she’s been continuing to play. 

Queen to pawn.

Swallowing hard, the slow simmering suspicion turns into something deeper, darker inside him. However, he’s always been an academic man - and academics know that theories and suspicions must first be proven.

She’s looking at him with a blank smile, breaking the heavy silence by asking if - with such an early departure - she should begin to pack.

“Hm,” he nods, then takes a sharp breath. “But before you do, I should tell you that there is bad news, too.”

Her smile falters slightly. “Bad news?”

“Yes. I’m afraid it’s not just my papal duties that compel us to return. The coven... was attacked by witch hunters,” he feigns a morose sigh.

Her mouth falls open. “Was... was anyone hurt?”

He looks down, furthering the act of sympathy he’s commonly performed so well in his high priesthood. “Sabrina,” he hears Zelda gasp softly, “...  and  Brother Ambrose were both slaughtered in battle.”

He looks back up at her, surveying her reaction. It’s quite clear she’s absolutely shattered inside, but the spell won’t let her delicate exterior show it. Her chest heaves and her hands tremble, but she otherwise stays silent.

He lets the moment pass just long enough to be cruel, then continues. “Your sister, Hilda... “

“No,” she says suddenly, but then quickly assembles herself, seemingly tugged back into composure by a force she’s noticeably fighting against.

His brow twitches. Yes, there it is. A bit of authenticity. Predictably rearing itself only for that Satan forsaken family of hers.

“Your sister, Hilda,” he repeats, “was spared.” Zelda exhales in a whimper, but her hands are still shaking. “What’s more - Sabrina appears to possess a newly developed talent for resurrection. Brought both herself, Brother Ambrose, and two others back from the dead, if sources are correct.”

“Sabri-... They’re alive?” it’s just on the brink of being a sob.

“The entire coven, yes,” he nods, looking the furthest from pleased he possibly could. “Quite the  _miracle_ .”

She places a hand over her stomach in relief, “Praise Satan.”

He gives her a solemn smile, eyes narrowed and gently squeezes her arm, “The Dark Lord has blessed us with many gifts this night. And many challenges. But we must be the example, my dear - we must be the strong presence our coven needs.”

She mimics his nodding head and he steps in closer, a wry smile on his face and idly fluffs her hair. “Other leaders would use a moment such as this to abandon tradition - suggest a new and dangerous path - write a narrative that fits their own selfish desires... “

He catches the brief glint in her eye that shows him she understands what he means, that he’s referring to Edward. And if he’s going to prove his theory - he’s going to have to keep stoking the fire until it explodes.

“But unlike those leaders, we serve our Lord as he commands and our people as they need. We don’t challenge our principles and we don’t dig our own graves.”

He’s close to proving himself correct and he can feel it, her skin beneath his fingers practically buzzing as her watches her chest rise and fall faster and faster as he continues.

“We don’t stray from our own kind,” he speaks tersely through his teeth, “We don’t associate with mortals who would see us staked and burned on our own alters. And we  don’t ... make the same mistakes _your brother did_.”

That does it. Her hand shoots through the air like a bullet and lands a stinging blow directly to the side of his face. He just barely grunts and then huffs in amusement. 

Looking back at her, he tightens the grip on her arm to see her struggling against herself and him, her hand rigid and shaking as she tries to raise it again.

“Heart not in it, my darling?” he taunts. “Such a shame that after all we’ve been through, I still have to teach you some  _manners_ .”

He growls out his last word and just as her eyes flicker with remorse, he grabs her harshly around the waist and throws her onto the bed. Taking a dark satisfaction in hearing her shocked little gasp, he rips her robe open and roughly spreads her legs, hissing out one command to stop her squirming: “Cooperate, wife.”

Quickly tossing the towel round his waist to the floor, he pins one of her arms to the bed and, positioning himself between her thighs, he enters her with one swift thrust. She practically screams at the sudden intrusion and a cruel smile quickly forms on his face. He’s harder than he can recall being in recent memory and his brutal rhythm is fueled purely by his rage. She whimpers with every thrust and her face twists in what he knows must be pain, but he hasn’t a care at all if it hurts. He wants it to. If she can deny him the smallest bit of fucking of gratitude when he’s just been selected as Satan’s most powerful representative on Earth, he can certainly deny her any pleasure in this. 

She’s gasping desperately for air and he’s gritting his teeth as he pounds furiously into her. “You love getting fucked like this, don’t you darling?” his voice is strained, but he doesn’t even slightly slow his pace.

She tries to answer and it’s clear that the capabilities of her lungs are warring with the commands of the spell as she attempts to get the words out, but he hasn’t any patience for such practicalities. Snaking his free hand up to her throat, he forces her face to him. “Answer me,” he barks out and she pants out a hollow “yes.”

He tightens his grip. “There’s a good girl,” he spits out, “Always eager for my cock, aren’t you?”

She gasps again. “Yes,” and her hand instinctively wraps around his arm to pull him away from her throat. It only incenses him further. “Lie still, sweetheart, and take it like the filthy little whore you are.”

There’s a reluctance in her grip to let go, but she does as she’s told and he sighs out a shaky, “Yes, that’s it.”

He feels himself getting close watching her gaze locked on him as he pumps into her harder than he ever has before. His mind is reeling and his fury keeps his hand locked firmly over her throat as he slides his free one down to her hip to better hold in her place. 

Somehow, she’s always been at the center of him losing control - favoring her brother’s path to high priest, challenging his leadership at the academy, questioning his authority, playing him for a fool, always running back to that damned family... always defending Edward’s _insufferable_ brat  \- and without realizing it, his nails begin to dig deeply into her flesh. The memories fuel the angry jutting of his hips and he begins to see bursts of white behind his eyes, edging closer and closer to his release. 

“It could’ve been different, darling,” he breathes, thinking of her gentle caresses over his skin not even an hour ago. How rapturous he felt under the idea she wanted to touch him. “I used to long for you, did you know?” he sees no reason in holding back now. “I practically ached for you.” He remembers Edward’s refusal to let him ask for her hand, remembers how easily she let him drift away without question, how every woman he fucked after her never compared. “I _wanted_ you , Zelda,” he rasps out and she whimpers. “So badly.”

The movement of his hips becomes erratic as his climax starts. The desperate “please” she strangles out not a second later is his entire undoing and he comes in four powerful spurts, burying himself deep inside her and groaning so loud, he’s sure to have woken the entire building. 

He slumps over her, his breathing so labored he’s practically wheezing and he can just barely make out her shaky breaths under him, too. He’s light-headed and it takes several moments for things to come back into focus for him. When they do, the first thing he sees is her face - his hovering just above hers. Her lips are parted and trembling with the strain of regaining her breath and she remains stock still just as he’d instructed her to. Except... he suddenly realizes her entire body is shaking and as his eyes travel down, he sees it. 

Deep gashes on her throat just below her pulse point, still freshly dripping blood. 

His eyes widen and he brings a hand up between them to see it stained red, at the same time noticing more wounds on her arm and hip. The robe beneath her is ruined and bruises are beginning to form in deep hues against her alabaster skin. It’s something he’d normally pride himself in, but knowing that she hadn’t been playing along as usual stirs a small sense of guilt in him. His eyes look back up to her and though her face remains on the edge of pleased, her own eyes tell a different story. There’s been many a time he’s lost his temper and seen Zelda briefly cower in intimidation, but he’s never seen her look genuinely frightened of him. Until now.

“Zelda,” he whispers, and her gaze remains unfocused from him as tears well in her eyes. Satan in hell, how had he not noticed? There he’d been, confessing his devotions, and at the same time nearly killing her. The thought makes him snap into reality and quickly he pulls out of her to frantically search through his bags for a healing balm or potion. After what feels like far too many seconds, he finds what he’s looking for and rushes back over to her. Silent tears are rolling down her face in earnest now and the silk of her robe is drenched in blood. Carefully - as careful as he should’ve been all along - he slides a hand under her neck, placing the open potion bottle to her lips and tilting her head up.

“Drink this, darling,” and - with some difficulty - she complies. Once the contents are gone, he holds his hand just above each wound and hurriedly whispers a spell, watching them close and heal completely before he allows himself another breath. 

Once it’s done, he exhales shakily and watches her breathing gradually slow. “Zelda,” he reaches forward to touch her and she flinches. Lowering his hand, he presses his lips together. “You may move, wife,” it’s a broken whisper, but she hears it and immediately turns on her side away from him, clutching the sheets and curling her legs up close to her body. Her hand covers her face and he’s certain he hears the faintest of sobs escape her lips.

Arms laying limp in his lap, he stares down at his hands in remorse. He could never return from this. He knows that. She had told him once that she would never belong to him and it’s only just in this moment he understands what she really meant. Only now that he realizes it was all his own doing. But then, he thinks, things would have been fine if not for the Spellmans. If not for her unwavering devotion to that _fucking_ family.

He feels his sense of control slipping away to anger again and stops himself. Satan as his witness, he would never know peace while they still exist. 

He glances over to her and his eyes darken as the plan evolves in his mind. Perhaps it was true that he would never possess her... but he _could_ keep her. He could lay every fortification into the damned spell that got him here until not even a trace of defiance was left, nor even the slightest bit of loyalty to anyone, but him. And if to his liking, she’ll barely even recognize their faces... and he’ll destroy... every last one of them. Starting with that half-breed, meddlesome mongrel of Edward’s. 

“Come into my arms, dearest,” he compels her suddenly and she hesitantly raises herself to comply, falling delicately into his embrace. He strokes her hair and he feels every muscle in her body tense. 

“Don’t be upset, my love,” he strokes her hair again and she reluctantly starts to relax. “We can’t have that, can we?” it’s like ice thawing, but she slowly softens and sinks further into him. “No no, you must be happy,” her limbs languidly lie against him now. “We must get rid of anything that hurts you so,” she whispers a small ‘husband’ into his chest, “Would you agree?”

“Yes,” she says, clear and steady and a dark smile spreads across his face, “I would... your Unholy Eminence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk - I hate everything about this and almost scrapped the whole work and deleted it. But... if canon stays what it is in part 3, I needed to explore the path of Faustus’ spiral into the unforgivable headass he is now. 
> 
> I imagined it came from a feeling of inferiority and hurt, but let me make clear that - even if that’s true - he deserves no pity. Nothing about this is sexy or justified or healthy - it’s just interesting to write. 
> 
> I hope I haven't crushed anyone with this. If I write anything again soon, it’ll be in pre-canon or AU land ‘cause trust me - I hated this, too. lol
> 
> At any rate, thank you for reading. <3

**Author's Note:**

> And so the cracks begin to show. Found it a bit difficult to write from Faustus’ perspective, so I hope it came across as somewhat believable!Thanks again for reading!


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